streaming down his upturned face
by hitorlesmis
Summary: John arrives home to find Sherlock soaked and shivering after an unplanned dip in the Thames.


John walks into 221b to see Sherlock curled up on the sofa, shivering violently. His coat is sodden, his dark curls dripping water all over the cushions. His face is very pale.

'Sherlock! What have you been _doing_?'

Sherlock aims a death glare in his direction. It's not as effective as it might have been, coming from someone who currently looks like a half-drowned kitten. John wants to give him a hug. But he contents himself with placing one hand on Sherlock's forehead, surreptitiously smoothing back his soggy curls. The man makes a noise that, if he didn't know better, John would have described as an indignant squeak. 'I'm p-perfectly fine, John,' he huffs unconvincingly, still shivering. 'I simply had a sl-slight, unplanned... d-dip in the Thames.'

John can't help rolling his eyes. With a long-suffering sigh, he shrugs off his thick jacket and, ignoring Sherlock's protests, pulls off the man's coat. It's heavy with Thames water and smells like sewage; it probably needs dry-cleaning but for now John just stuffs it in the corner. He holds out his jacket to Sherlock.

'Put this on.'

Sherlock uncurls himself slightly, looking about to protest, but John gives him a hard stare. 'Don't argue with me,' he says rather roughly, trying to conceal his concern for the detective. 'I'm not having you freezing to death.'

Sherlock looks up at him resentfully, but allows the jacket to be draped over his shoulders. John can't help but worry about how awfully _quiet_ he's being. He lays one hand on the man's clammy arm, realising guiltily that Sherlock's still dressed in soaking wet trousers and shirt, and says quietly, 'I'll go and find you some dry clothes.'

_xxxxxxxxx_

John remembers a little too late that he actually has _no idea_ where Sherlock keeps any of his clothes. The detective's room is sparsely decorated and almost empty, the wardrobe filled only with tottering piles of case notes, evidence sheets and scientific papers. The chest-of-drawers, John discovers, is stuffed with a great variety of items, including numerous scientific instruments, an ancient mobile phone, odd socks, a vial of what looks suspiciously like blood, a rubber egg, a broken Bunsen burner and a child's stuffed teddy bear, but not, sadly, suits.

There are silky pyjama trousers lying under the bed though. John fishes them out and drapes them over his arm, then grabs the two largest T-shirts from his own wardrobe. He adds a couple of warm towels to the pile and heads back to the living room.

_xxxxxxxxx_

Sherlock doesn't look much better. He's lying full-length on the sofa now, teeth still chattering miserably and face no less pale. He doesn't resist when John gently lifts up his damp head so he can sit down next to him, and lets it fall back again when John lets go. Right into John's lap.

John closes his eyes very briefly. He taps Sherlock on the shoulder and says brightly, 'I've brought you some clothes. I, um, couldn't find any shirts, so I brought you some of mine, because they're probably about the right size, and so they should probably fit you, at least, I think-'

'J-John,' Sherlock interrupts. John's realises he's babbling and trails off, blushing. He quickly offers the T-shirts and pyjama trousers to the detective.

'Are you okay to, um...that is, I mean...do you want me to, er, help you...put these on?' John can hear the hoarseness in his voice and hates it. It's only Sherlock, for God's sake. Only Sherlock with his head nestled in John's lap. Only Sherlock whose dark curls are spilling out from between John's thighs...

John stops that train of thought right there. 'Come on, Sherlock, lets get you dry,' he says, in what he hopes is a normal voice. He takes the lack of response as agreement and starts towelling Sherlock's hair dry. 'Get those trousers on, come on, hurry up, I won't look.'

It's easier now; John's slipping into doctor mode and Sherlock is just another patient, nothing more. The detective's pulling on the pyjama trousers now, with his head still buried under a towel in John's lap. His soaked black work trousers are in a heap on the floor. John helps him off with his sodden, clinging purple shirt, and pulls the largest of his T-shirts over the man's head. _Just a patient, John, just another patient..._

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx _

End of Chapter 1

I hope you enjoyed this! I'm not sure whether to carry on or not, so if you think I should continue it, please rate and review and tell me so!

I appreciate any and all comments! :)


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